


Life with the edges taken off

by AbAbsurdo



Series: Road to recovery [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt No Comfort, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbAbsurdo/pseuds/AbAbsurdo
Summary: Thomas was in pain. There was no light in the tunnel.
Series: Road to recovery [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802995
Comments: 11
Kudos: 60





	Life with the edges taken off

**Author's Note:**

> Not a fluffy piece of work.  
> Depression isn't magically cured.  
> Thomas will get there, but not right away.  
> This is a description of a graphic suicide attempt and the thoughts of a suicidal man.  
> But it's also realistic fiction.

_Open up my heart and see what's inside_  
_Take a look inside me, inside my mind_  
_And you'll see my heart is broken in two_

  
Indian Strings, Suede

Now

It’s not difficult to make the decision. Not as difficult as everyone thought. Back in the days, it would not have even cross his mind. These days, though… It was a crime, yes. But Thomas was a sinner by nature, born to be condemned by humanity. An outlier. What’s another crime in a long list of those? 

He hadn’t said goodbye to anyone, no one would miss him. He hadn’t left a note, who was there to want to know his reasons? 

He took of his jacket and shirt and hung them in the clothes hanger. He smoothed down the lapels and turned around to turn on the tap. Random thoughts crossed his mind while he checked the water temperature. What would happen to his livery when he’d be gone? Would they sell it? Give it to someone else? Burn it? Bury him dressed in it? He smiled for the first time in months without a child running around him. Who would have thought? Thomas Barrow doting on children. Not his sister’s kids, never them though. He would prefer his brown suit instead of his livery though. 

Buried a free man instead of a servant. 

Maybe he should have left a note after all for these little things. Well, it was too late now. The only certainty was his last residence would be Downton Abbey.

He had first stepped foot on Downton Abbey fifteen years earlier, all of sixteen years old, a couple of years younger than Lady Mary and look at her now; she had a kid. Lady Sybil, even younger than him had a child and she had died giving birth to her. Lady Edith had a child as well. And all the littles had lost a parent before getting to meet them. Thomas would never be a father yet here he was. For now. 

He stared at the mirror. The figure looking back at him was unrecognisable. Unnatural in the eyes of most, grotesque in his own. Not because he was ugly. He knew he wasn’t, he used to take pride in his looks. How had he managed not to do anything right in his thirty years of living? He leaned to pull off his shoes and socks. The same thought returned. What would happen to his belongings? No man in the Abbey had a similar build to his. Maybe Mr. Molesley and wasn’t that ironic?

Thomas ran the back of his fingers on his cheek. He had shaved earlier that morning and was still clean-shaven. It was unnecessary to repeat it now. He turned the tap off and sat on the ledge of the bath. His legs felt numb. An odd thought to remove his glove and leave it somewhere to be found clean later crossed his mind. He looked down at it and caressed it with his fingers of his right hand. It has been part of him for almost a decade. It deserved to be with him these last moments. It was the one part of his wardrobe no one had a need of. It was his and only his, same as the scar underneath was a firm reminder of his past will to live, to survive the war, to overcome the horror he had lived through for two long years away for his country. Only to return to more death, more loss, more disillusionment, and rejection of ideas he knew were right. Lieutenant Courtenay could have still been alive had his opinion been respected.

Back then, Thomas valued his opinion. He had been right too.

The water was warm as he sat down fully dressed, a bizarre imitation of taking a bath, but it helped the blood’s flow. He pulled his knees towards his chest and rested his right hand on them. His wrist was pale, his veins blue and purple. The blade caressed the soft, tender skin under his watchful eye. His blood was red. Like everyone else’s. The blade changed hands. And the act was repeated. Thomas watched mesmerised as the blood ran to the water turning it first pink and then a darker colour, not exactly red, not yet, but close enough.

He leaned back and let his head rest, closed his eyes and tried to remember better days. His memories turned foggy even as he still remembered feelings of rejection and desperation. He still remembered the pain of rejection from his father, his sister, his lover as vividly as the pain of mutilating his hand on his own accord as a method for survival. Recalling he was undesirable as a friend from Andy or Ms. Hughes was as acutely painful as a kick in the stomach. And the final hit, being ostracised from the only place he knew as home for half his life, after being rejected by the first one. He had no family to open their arms for him.

Was it his fault? Did he have a knack to pick all the wrong people to care for? People who wouldn’t care for him?

  
Every person he had believed in had let him down, himself included. His hopes for the future and ambition for a better life where he had to bow to no one were dreams of the past turned nightmares in the present. His skills were good enough, but no one really needed them. How had Carson kindly put it? He was a creation of the past, not in any way necessary for the future. 

The skin itched when the blade had passed through it and his veins and Thomas watched the blood enthralled, remembering cleaning it from dying soldiers and bandaging wounds back then when his skills were a necessity. When he was wanted and irreplaceable, only happening in the darkest of moments whilst the country and King were fighting against an all-powerful enemy ruthless in its need to subjugate.

In the blood it was the anger that had kept him going against society, against everyone who’d get close to him only to later leave him alone. Or betray him. Head resting back on the ledge, Thomas chuckled from the irony of it all. What was he without that anger? Nothing to power him, nothing to pretend there was worth fighting against the hate for his very nature. At least, when the anger turned inwards, when his blood started flowing in the white, pale skin of his wrist, there was activity. He wasn’t a passive observer as he lay in the bath filled with warm water and his life essence, boiling hot. 

For a few precious minutes, the ache on his wrists made everything razor sharp again. His senses were alive once again, no numbness fogging them. The seconds ticked by and for the first time in a very long time, Thomas was alone, but not lonely. He didn’t need anyone, didn’t want to speak to anyone or hug anyone, put his arms around a warm body craving for warmth or contact. He was as God intended, alone and powerful in his individuality.

He turned his head and tried to raise his hand, but it took too much effort and he had little left to give. The glove, perfectly clean a few minutes before, had turned a dirty pink. He hoped someone would wash it before they put it on his hand again.

Would they?

He wanted them to, but in the end, he did not care. He did not care about much of anything lately. And that was it, wasn’t it? 

Having no one loving him was one thing, having no one for him to love was another. As much as love ached inside him, not feeling it was a crushing burden to an already fragile heart. 

Closing his eyes, he wondered if this is how it would end, if he’d remain connected to reality awaiting the very last second, the last breath. Taking a long, deep breath as if to check if he was still there, he thought of regrets. Did he have any? Yes, he should have taken a cigarette with him. 

There was nothing he regretted that could be changed.

Even one small regret would have kept him floating among the misery and rejection, but Thomas was in peace with himself. For the first, and thankfully the last time in a very long while he was peaceful as his blood coloured the tepid water. Despite the pressure he felt as if the air was sucked out of his mouth, and he could no longer see clearly, he was calm, enjoying the stillness of the moment. 

He left consciousness safe and serene, he returned to it with burning wrists and a pounding headache. He went alone in the bathroom, he returned to people in his bedroom. He already missed the quietness. Even his own heartbeat was sounding horrendously loud now. 

He had failed to die just as he had failed in everything else. And now, he had to live with that too. 

“Thomas? Are you awake?”

Breathing is painful once again. 


End file.
